


Hello God? It's me, Victor Trevor.

by victrevored (kirkisajerk)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Britpicked, Not as sad as the tag make it seem, Paranoia, Schizophrenia, Victor isn't british, WIP, but for some reason I still made him waspy, mentions of legal drugs, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkisajerk/pseuds/victrevored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a wonderful thing that Jane Trevor had allowed her second-cousin to live with her in London. After all, Victor had only seen the rural small town life of Maine before, and a change of scenery was good for anyone. But there's something off about Victor, beyond the social anxiety she was warned of.</p>
<p>No, Victor is sick. Sick enough that he decides that a complete stranger is a sign of his own doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello God? It's me, Victor Trevor.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: This is not WHATSOEVER romanticizing schizophrenia, or saying that anxiety is a anywhere near similar. Victor is undiagnosed, and hasn't told anyone about his symptoms. Also, this isn't a dark!Sherlock story. 
> 
> The the terms "crazy" and "insane" are found in this writing because they are commonly found in vernacular. If Sherlock calls Victor an ableist slur, it's the character speaking, not myself as an author. 
> 
> Schizophrenia is a serious mental illness that interferes with a person’s ability to think clearly, manage emotions, make decisions and relate to others. It is a complex, long-term medical illness, affecting about 1% of Americans. Although schizophrenia can occur at any age, the average age of onset tends to be in the late teens to the early 20s for men, and the late 20s to early 30s for women. It is uncommon for schizophrenia to be diagnosed in a person younger than 12 or older than 40. It is possible to live well with schizophrenia. 
> 
> If you think you or someone close to you is experiencing any mental illness, the National Alliance of Mental Illness (NAMI) helpline is 800-950-NAMI .

It was nerve wracking, sitting next to him.

 

Not butterflies in your stomach sort of nerves, or “ _oh God how will I pass this test_ ” nerves—rather, the feeling could be described in short as, “ _Jesus Christ, am I going to make it out of here alive?”._ What made it all the more distressing was that the second hand of the clock hadn’t even made a full rotation yet.

 

Victor didn’t know why he was struck with such a crippling fear of the other. The man couldn’t have been any older than himself, perhaps even a few years younger. Not a tough face, not particularly athletic looking. Victor couldn’t even describe him as looking like a criminal. A more accurate description would be smartly dressed, posh, and thin.

 

But he was off. That was obvious, Victor could tell from the paleness of his skin to how far he had bitten down on his index finger nail. How straight he stood up, how he didn’t even recognize his presence when Victor said hello. Of course, it wasn’t as if Victor expected a grand “how are you?” when just meeting someone on the tube. But the fact that his eyes didn’t move from the place he was staring was unsettling. Small, focused pupils surrounded by a ghostly shade of blue. Perhaps it was Victor himself that wasn’t real. This man was simply the only one who realized that.

 

Victor went to check his mobile, trying his best to distract himself from the man he doubted was breathing. On a crowed train, he’d never felt so unsafe, too alone to say anything about the sick feeling rising in his stomach. Fleetingly, he wondered that perhaps if he vomited, the man would stand up and take a different seat. Maybe he wouldn’t even be bothered by it; just sit there as the rest of the train erupted in disgust.

 

“Dear God, get him a towel!” Someone would scream.

 

“No, no, get him off the train!” The conductor would yell.

 

The man next to him would laugh though, wouldn’t he? He’d only laugh once the scent of vomit traveled to every passenger’s nose, till every man and woman the reeking trap realized how pathetic, how disgusting—

 

The man’s eyes flickered. They flickered, didn’t they? Right onto Victor’s face, settling on the bridge of his nose, then dragging up to his eyes before quickly stealing away. Did he know something? Did he know what Victor was thinking? Maybe, oh god, maybe he new Victor didn’t belong. He just had to have. Why else would anyone look at him?

 

Silently, Victor gave the man next to him a name. A private name, as anyone that knew so much about him had to have a proper identity. If he wouldn’t give it to him, Victor would just have to make it up.

 

He did that a lot. Make things up.

 

Hopefully William didn’t know that.

 

One stop later, Victor was out of the tube.

 

It was only Victor’s second day in London. The city was a drastic change from his old home in Maine, about as drastic as you could get. Maine was all forests, the monotony of national parks and blueberry fields only broken by bays and seaside towns. Victor had lived in the same house in Deer Isle that his father had (God rest his soul), along with his grandfather, and father before that. Family lore told the tale that his great-great-grandfather came to the state in 1892, as the trip to Canada was just a tad too expensive.

 

As lovely as that sentiment was, Maine was boring. Victor was twenty-four years old, fresh out of college. He loved New York when he had visited, Boston and Philadelphia as well. The idea of moving to a city was enticing, and when Victor learned his second cousin Jane owned a ‘flat’ in London, he really couldn’t resist. One plane ticket later, and he was looking into citizenship. The idea was he’d live Jane until he managed his own home (or until she kicked him out, whatever came first), and set out on his dreams of becoming a great writer. Or artist. Or mathematician. He wasn’t quite sure yet.

 

That night Victor didn’t take dinner with Jane (not that he didn’t want to, he simply could have. Jane was out on a date with Christopher, and accompanying someone on a date of that nature would be a bit taboo, especially considering it was his second cousin). He had his meal in the privacy of his room, bed freshly made, the television playing a taped episode _I Love Lucy_ on mute. One Xanax later, William would only appear in his nightmares once.

 

The weeks following would merge into one foggy memory. If you were to ask Victor about him, he wouldn’t be able to recollect the majority of it. Jane asked him if he was insane one breakfast, his mother called one Tuesday with a pain in her voice only Victor could understand, and he realized he didn’t particularly care for his appearance. Standing in front of the mirror was a common occurrence, picking apart what parts of him were good, which ones were bad. Jane stood in his doorway once, hair curlers in, facemask on. “You were talking to yourself again, Vic.” Her voice always sounded as if it were coming from a record player, warped and slurred. “Try to get some sleep, or at least keep it down.”

 

Victor nodded. He always ended up being a bother.

 

Victor never considered himself to be insane. He certainly wasn’t insane when he was little, not insane in his teenage years. If he had went insane, it must have happened somewhere in his twenties. But then again, didn’t everyone say their twenties was a crazy time?

Back in Deer Isle, Victor had a doctor. He was a short, overweight man with a constant wheeze to his voice. When Victor told him that he was constantly on edge, Dr. Sven said “Anxiety ridden, then? That can be helped” and gave him a prescription for Xanax. Victor smiled and thanked him. He didn’t ever mention the paranoia that only grew with each day, the occasional voices, or the crippling fear of his approaching demise. After all, if he did, Dr. Sven would have just laughed.

 

Why was he even thinking about Maine? That was the past. That small town life was the past. Now Victor was going to make something of his life, he was going to do it no matter what. It didn’t matter if William was going to kill him, or if Jane secretly hated him. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t fall asleep anymore, or if he found himself switching from crying to laughing to an embarrassing sense of confusion every few minutes. None of that mattered. London would treat him well.

 

* * *

 

221C Baker Street. 221C Baker Street. Victor had printed out the Craig’s List ad that morning; a listing for a “spacious flat in central London”. He didn’t tell Jane, knowing in his heart that she would certainly tell him not to leave. She had, after all, been hinting that he should go back to Maine with his mother. Jane always thought she knew what was best for Victor, but she was certainly wrong on this.

 

221C Baker Street. The cab stopped in front of the home and Victor hurried out, a check for the first month’s rent in his back pocket.

 

The ad had said the landlady was named Mrs. Hudson.

 

The man who opened the door was not named Mrs. Hudson.

 

“May I help you? Do talk quickly, I have a sound and time sensitive experiment upstairs, I only left it to open the door because your knocking was so loud.”

 

Victor didn’t move. He couldn’t move. His feet were melted into the concrete step, his legs were broken and his nerves had shut off.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re mute.”

 

Maybe if he closed his eyes, he’d disappear.

 

“Ah, right. Good day.”

 

The door was slammed shut, Victor could feel himself breath again.

 

How did William find him? Or, rather, what twisted fate had brought him in front of that man once again? It was a big enough city; he shouldn’t have to run into people that scared him. It wasn’t like Deer Isle, where he was forced to speak to the bone-chilling postman every Saturday. No, no. This just wasn’t _fair_. Victor squeezed his eyes shut very tightly, his fists as well. If he didn’t, he was certain he’d die on the spot.

 

Maybe this was God. God telling him to face his fears, face his monster under the bed. _Good_ _Lord above, if I should knock again, let it start raining._ Victor opened one eye slowly. No rain. But the Lord worked in mysterious ways, didn’t he? It would rain later, or maybe he prayed wrong. Accidentally thought, “don’t let it rain”. It was rather hard to control one’s thoughts.

 

Mustering up all his courage, Victor knocked again.

 

“What is it this time?” William looked visibly more annoyed, as it took a good three minutes for him to answer this knock. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a thin dressing gown over silk pajamas. His voice was deep, far deeper than Victor’s, smooth as well. Victor imagined that it was a voice suited for the radio, or for audiobooks.

 

Victor swallowed dryly. “I—ah—“

 

For some reason Victor didn’t quite understand, William smirked. “What a shock, it can talk. You what? Hurry up”

 

“I saw an ad.”

 

“About?”

 

“221C Baker Street. For rent.”

 

Victor didn’t understand the next part, either. William rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson is on a holiday this week. Barbados. However, I assume you’re a proper candidate for a flat. Wire her the money, I would suspect you could move in as soon as she receives it.” He went to close the door, but Victor grabbed his hand. Thin. It was thinner than his.

 

“I saw you on the train. Some amount of time before.” Victor rushed, breathing a little faster.

 

“So?”  William pulled his hand away. He wiped it on his dressing gown. Did he think he was disgusting? 

 

Victor didn’t have an answer. Of course he didn’t have an answer, what was he thinking? Before he knew what he was doing, he was backing away. And once again, the memories get fuzzy. He was running, he was falling. The sharpness of pain morphed into the urgency of fear. Breathing turned into hyperventilating. Someone told him to calm down—thankfully it wasn’t William. He scrambled up, ran until his feet hurt. Ran until he was safe. Far away. Curled up behind a park bench.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated, not sure if I should let this one die or if I should continue with another chapter (hate to end these things sadly!). 
> 
> If you're interested in this AU for a roleplay, feel free to contact me. :)


End file.
